The Humor Test

My first child was born when I was 21. Five years later the second was born. That was a long time ago and I was busy with my life and didn’t take the time to observe things. Then, when I was 51 we adopted a baby and two years later another. With these I am older, more settled and take the time to watch them grow. I paid attention when they took their first steps, spoke their first words. I was there when they went to school and watched every little thing they did. One of the first things I noticed was that they did not have a sense of humor like mine.

Young kids basically like what we would call “slapstick.” This is the level of their humor for several years. Don’t waste a joke on them, they won’t get it. They don’t understand sarcasm, one-liners or funny stories. In fact, if a story is too long they won’t even sit still for it. They don’t get the punch line because they have quit listening long before it is delivered.

I have developed a test I call a Humor Test. I tell them an old Mark Twain story and if they don’t fall into riotous laughter I don’t waste humor time on them. The story goes something like this:

When I was a young man [it helps to use a voice much like you imagine he sounded as an old man] I was walking down the streets of San Francisco. I rounded a corner and came upon a burning building. There was a woman in a fourth floor window. “Help,” she said, “help me. The building’s on fire and I can’t get down.”

“I’ll help you,” I said.

I threw a rope up to her. “Tie that around your waist,” I yelled.

She did and I pulled her down.

Spell Check

Computers and I entered the legal world close to the same time. Actually, I was a little ahead of personal computers, Microsoft and word processing programs. We were still using typewriters and even copiers had not evolved to the point we could totally do away with carbon paper.

Ten years later, technology was advanced as was I. I moved into a nest of lawyers in a glass high-rise in a large city law firm. I was on the eighth floor with a large office that had an exterior wall of glass overlooking a green area. We had all the equipment necessary for a well-run office and all the support staff needed to provide services to feed the monster of the modern legal system.

There was a mother-in-law/daughter-in-law team among the support staff. Mildred [not her real name] was the self-appointed head of this well oiled legal machine and she ran everything and everyone, staff and lawyer alike, asserting herself at every opportunity. We all lived in fear of Mildred.

Mildred had a daughter-in-law, Cassie [again, a pseudonym], who also worked as a secretary in the office. Later such staff would be called “Legal Assistants” but for the time they were still called “Secretaries.” Cassie was a high school dropout who had been impregnated by Mildred’s son while still young. She had given up her education to marry and raise the baby. From all indications she was a good person whose heart was well placed. The lack of even the most basic education was clearly evident in her conversation and her work. The weakness in common sense was apparent and education, even higher education, likely would never have helped with that shortfall. But the one area in which she was a leader, a woman among girls, was in self-confidence.

She was one of the most confident people I had ever known. In her mind there was nothing she couldn’t do and nothing she didn’t know. She was poor at taking directions or even suggestions because she was convinced she knew more than anyone else. That was a hard thing for a lawyer, who as a group think too highly of themselves, to take.

With nothing but self-confidence to commend her, I wondered at times how she had landed a coveted position in a large law office. I knew many attorneys who hired support staff based only on her looks but even there Cassie was only minimally attractive. I concluded Mildred had hired her. Mildred’s son wasn’t much and this work arrangement assured a continuing income, something important for Cassie, her husband and their child, Mildred’s grandchild. Since she didn’t have hiring authority, I imagined she simply brought Cassie to work and no one had sufficient courage to run her off. Mildred was always there. They came together, worked together, ate lunch together and left together. Mildred had her working, didn’t have to support them, protected her son’s wife from lustful and lecherous lawyers and provided for her grandchild, whom she dearly loved.

I never knew why but for some reason Cassie was assigned to me. No one asked me, it just happened. I wasn’t the youngest or least experienced of the lawyers in the office. In fact, i was probably the second best lawyer in the entire office. But she was assigned to me as my assistant.

In those days the most effective way of working was to dictate and have your assistant transcribe the dictation. It was the early days of computers and word processing programs. We had them for the support staff but only one of the lawyers had his own personal computed in his office. I preferred dictation then and probably still would if I was still practicing law. I used a small cassette recorded, a pocket recorder, in which I dictated the contents of whatever document I wanted to generate, together with any instructions. I would place these and any notes I had in a pocket folder and put it all in a basket. From time to time Cassie would pick up the work from my basket and deliver what she had completed. It was a smooth and efficient method of operation.

I had learned to proof-read her work the hard way. I had dictated a letter to a client, an arrogant instructor at the University of Oklahoma, and had merely signed it when Cassie presented it to me. We mailed it off only to get it back a few days later corrected with red ink. It was embarrassing to look at my own work bleeding from every pore. I lost face as the client knew I would and the humiliation continued because he didn’t fire me. He came in and smirked as we discussed his case. From then on I read everything Cassie prepared. Had I been in control of the office I would have fired her but that decision was not mine.

I prepared a legal document for another client using my tried and tested dictation/transcription technique. It was a lengthy document I had worked on for several days. And it had taken Cassie a couple of days to type the rough draft. I was not reading her work and since it was a rough draft I planned on making some changes if needed.

In the body of the document I had used the word “collateral” several times. And to my surprise, in every place I had used the word “collateral” there appeared the word “clitoris.”

I circled each appearance of the word and wrote “sp” above it, whereupon it was returned to the “out” basket. Cassie returned it later and said in all innocence, “Hershel, that’s spelled right.”

“No,” I replied, “it’s not correct.” I knew it was not the spelling that was the problem, it was a total ignorance of both words, the intended one and the one she typed.

“Yes it is,” she argued emphatically. “I typed it and clicked ‘spell check’ and this was the first choice.”

I looked at her and saw a lot of emptiness in those eyes. I had raised teenagers who at their worst were smarter than this and I knew this was a debate I couldn’t win.

“Cassie,” I said, “‘clitoris’ is spelled correctly, ‘collateral’ is misspelled.”

She objected again and told me how “spell check” works. I interrupted her and said, “I might be wrong. Check with Mildred. She should know.”

Rethinking George W. Bush

I did not vote for George W. Bush. I campaigned against him and was highly critical of his policies throughout his eight years as President of the United States of America. I felt his decision to invade Iraq was worse than ill advised, I felt it was an act of aggression against a nation which obviously hated us but did not have the ability to do us any lasting damage. I felt we were led into that war under false pretenses and that we were told that that nation was responsible for the attack against America on September 11, 2001. It was not. There was no credible information ever tying Iraq to the terrorist attacks against us on 9/11. Our invasion of that country placed us in league with other invader nations such as Germany and Japan, a status we should have avoided at all cost.

The policies of President Bush, from his tax cuts to his Patriot Act to his imprisonment of persons deemed to be terrorists without any kind of due process, were all matters with which we could disagree vociferously. I have no problems whatsoever of expressing disagreement for those positions. However, I am having to rethink some of my criticisms regarding President Bush.

Mr. Bush ran for president on the theory that he was a compassionate Christian. This was a good slogan and I rather doubted it was any more than simply a slogan. In observing his conduct as governor of the state of Texas, I saw very little evidence of any kind that he was a compassionate person. The Christianity that had been forced on us during the Reagan/Bush years and even by political opposition during the Clinton years was a harsh, judgmental and destructive Christianity. Mr. Bush wanted to embrace those people who had converted Jesus into a Republican and he wanted to save their votes. But he also wanted to temper those views by calling himself compassionate in order to make himself a little more tolerable to a more liberal audience.

Early in his administration, Mr. Bush, working with Democrats in the Congress, signed into law the No Child Left Behind. Whether one agrees or disagrees with the passage of this law and whether one does or does not find fault with its implementation, one can conclude that it was entered into with good intent and purposes.

Also early in his administration, Mr. Bush, again working with Democrats in the Congress, passed the Prescription Drug Act which was intended to help senior citizens pay for their prescription drugs. Whether one agrees or disagrees with the passage of this Act and whether one does or does not find fault with its implementation, one can conclude that it was entered into with good intent and purposes.

With the attack by the terrorists on the World Trade Center in New York and on the Pentagon in Washington DC, and the failed attack on the White House or the Capitol, on September 11, all of his efforts to do things with good intent and purposes were set aside and he had to focus on the one thing that we feared the most-another terrorist attack. His advisers took advantage of this opportunity to lead him down a path of aggression and military expansionism which could bring pleasure to their lives for reasons that only they would ever be able to understand.

It seemed that in the last two years of his administration he tried to bring himself back to that compassionate Christianity that he had run on in 2000. But he was never in control of events after that. Bad people influenced him and events controlled him. And now, after being removed from his presidency by nearly 2 years, I find that I am having to reevaluate my thinking of him. Perhaps in his heart he really did want to be a compassionate person after all.

And Just Like That It Was Gone

Port Aransas, Texas. We were enjoying the warm water, the surf and the gentle breeze of the first day of our vacation at the Gulf of Mexico. I walked out into the waves remembering the time before when I had done the same thing with no real challenge. But I was older now and not so skilled in the art of walking as I had once been. The waters knocked my feet from beneath me and rolled me around entirely as if I had no will in the matter.

I finally got in the shallow water and thought I could stand but I found it was difficult even there to rise. I shouldn't have been surprised as I have trouble standing while on dry ground. My knees are worn and often cause me to review my vast knowledge of theology wondering why God did not make skyhooks while he was inventing everything else. They certainly would have been helpful, as much so as hook worms.

I did finally stand and made my way back to our room where I sat and composed a poem about the event. It was my own "Old Man and the Sea." An old man waded into the waves defiantly. He cursed their threat of harm. He called them "Baby Waves," all the time ignoring their "white and hoary heads." They knocked him down and rolled him with ease. But he finally got to his feet and stood there yelling at the "Baby Waves," cursing them and telling them they were "sad and shameful scions of Poseidon."

He raised his fist in the air defiantly as he cursed them, cursing them for all to hear as having been conquered by a better man than any they had ever encountered before. And then in a still, small voice, one none could hear but the waves themselves, he thanked them for showing kindness to an old man, for merely rolling him around playfully rather than making sport of him in a more serious manner.

It was a wonderful poem. Composed on my iPhone, it took some time for it to be completed. And then I lost it. It went somewhere and I could never find it again. I sat with paper and pen and tried to reconstruct it. But I was unable to find the challenge, the passion and the curiosity which had all been there in the original composition. Some of the words came back to me, but nothing read as well as the first draft. And it was gone.

I was sorry it was no longer there to be shared.

I'm Back

I have been away from this blog and another I was doing for quite some time. It seemed I had offended some of the good people in the other blog, not by anything I said in it but because I had taken issue with one of their friends who was spreading those hate emails which were so common and popular back last summer and fall. I only responded to them in private emails to the sender, not in the blog.

I have decided to pick up where I left off on this one. The other will remain dormant for the time. We cannot allow the complaints and criticisms of the radicals in society to silent us and prevent our comment on current issues. Further, there is a lot I have to say that is not necessarily a comment on current issues. It is commentary on life and it would be good for them them to listen to me. I have a lot to say and not near enough time to say it in.

So, with that, I am back!

On Being Called a "Curmudgeon"--Part 1

When I turned 65 recently, on November 1, 2009, I entered the ranks of senior citizens without question. And I suppose I became a full-fledged curmudgeon in the minds of some people. I really don't like being called a curmudgeon, which by definition is a bad-tempered, difficult, cantankerous person. I prefer to consider myself a kind, considerate and thoughtful person. But, I am a kind,considerate and thoughtful person who doesn't abide stupidity easily.

I recently had some leg problems which deteriorated rather quickly. In a day's time I went from hobbling to walking (or shuffling) with a cane. The next day I was barely moving with a walker and when I finally was able to get in to see the doctor, I had to use a wheel chair. We don't know what caused it, but we treated the symptoms and made improvement. (There are still times I feel more comfortable with a cane in hand.)

A few days later I was back moving ever so slowly with a cane. My wife had tickets for a concert by the musical group, U-2, at the football field at the University of Oklahoma in Norman. I wanted to go and it was important to her, so we, with a couple of friends, set out. They drove me as close to the field as they could and then, like others ahead of us, we turned left and stopped so I could walk the three blocks or so to the field while they parked the car further away.

I struggled to rise to a standing position from the car as a young police officer watched me. I then used my cane to shuffle to the trunk where I was getting my coat. As I raised the trunk, the young officer said, "You'll have to move that car."

I turned toward him slowly, looked him in the eye and with deliberation, said, "Officer, I'm moving as fast as I can." Then I remained silent and kept staring at him. It was a pregnant pause.

I thought he might want to say something like, "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't notice you were barely able to walk even with that cane. Is there anything I can do to help you?" Or, "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't ask about your physical capabilities, I simply want you to know you have to move that car." Or, even, "I'm sorry, sir, but I was born with mental deficiencies and it has caused me to have a lot of feelings of inferiority but this badge and this gun make up for it."

To my surprise he didn't say anything at all. I should have let it go, but I took my cane and hit the car and called to my wife loudly. She got out of the car and asked me what was wrong. I said, "You can't leave the car here." She allowed as how she wasn't going to, to which I replied, "Well, me and this young officer thought you were going to park here all night. And we just wanted you to know you'll have to move that car."

She got in the car and drove off and I hobbled past the young officer commenting on his intelligence, or lack thereof, and probably commenting on his parentage. I also expressed my hope that he would be old someday and unable to walk well and I hoped he remembered this. To his credit, he still had nothing further to say.

Perhaps I am a curmudgeon after all.

Halloween

I love Halloween. Always have. When I was a kid we lived in a rural community near Erick, Oklahoma, a small town of about 1,500 people. At that time, the late 1940s and 50s, there seemed to be a young family living on each quarter-section of land, a young farm family usually with 2 to 4 children. It was a good life and the proximity to Erick made it all the better.

Erick was our town. It was where we went to church and where our family and friends lived. It was where we went on Saturdays to sell cream and while we were there we visited with other farm families. Erick was a social gathering place.

Halloween was a special holiday in Erick. A block of Main Street, where the primary businesses were situated, was roped off and limited to foot traffic. The businesses all stayed open late and the various school classes set up booths on the street. It was all innocent fun, intended to provide something wholesome for the children who took over the town. It was a large number of children, all the kids in town and all the country kids who came to town for the carnival

For the kids, it was a glorious and innocent time. We dressed in costume, usually something we made with maybe a store-bought item such as a ten cent mask, and were there by the time the sun went down. We ran in small groups throughout the town to trick-or-treat every house we could find. I don’t remember ever leaving a house empty handed. We got some candy, some fruit, some homemade items. It was all special to us.

We worked a section of the town and then went to the carnival. We usually had just enough money given us to participate in some of the various booths. Then we would hit another section of town. Back to the carnival and then trick-or-treat each business. There was always another section of the town to go to. We could eventually cover the entire town and only slow down when someone asked if we hadn’t been there earlier. It was time to go back to Main Street. A half-block over was Cal’s Café, opened in 1946 after World War II had ended. Cal was my uncle and he was usually there. I don’t know what he gave the other kids, but he always gave me a soft drink and a sandwich, along with the candy.

Halloween was fun. Masks, costumes and stalking through the night. People were kind and sharing. There were enough respectful screams and terrified looks to keep us contented that we were doing our share to carry on the spirit of the holiday.

All of this was a great time. Why was it so good? In part it may have been because we had so little that this was a special time in which the cornucopia was exposed to our view. It would happen again at Thanksgiving, my very favorite holiday. Christmas, probably most people’s favorite, has a uniqueness all its own. It is a religious experience, not a secular holiday. Thanksgiving is a time of memories of family in the harvest time of the year, the great and joyous time of an agrarian society. Halloween, to me, was closely related to the season of harvest and it provides memories of community.